The duke and I julia Quinn

de rigueur,"
he said quietly. 
"Oh. How stupid of me. I didn't realize..." 
'That it was a betrothal ring? What did you think it was?" 
"I 
wasn't
thinking," she admitted sheepishly. He'd never given her a gift before. She'd been so 
taken aback by the gesture she'd completely forgotten that he owed her a betrothal ring. 
"Owed." She didn't like that word, didn't like that she'd even thought it. But she was fairly 
certain that that was what Simon must have been thinking when he'd picked out the ring. 
This depressed her. 
Daphne forced a smile. "Is this a family heirloom?" 
"No!" he said, with enough vehemence to make her blink. 
"Oh." 
Yet another awkward silence. 
He coughed, then said, "I thought you might like something of your own. All of the Hastings 
jewelry was chosen for someone else. This I chose for you." 
Daphne thought it a wonder she didn't melt on the spot. "That's so sweet," she said, just barely 

---

managing to stifle a sentimental sniffle. 
Simon squirmed in his seat, which didn't surprise her. Men did so hate to be called sweet. 
"Aren't you going to open it?" he grunted. 
"Oh, yes, of course." Daphne shook her head slightly as she snapped back to attention. "How 
silly of me." Her eyes had glazed over slightly as she stared at the jeweler's box. Blinking a few 
times to clear her vision, she carefully released the box's clasp and opened it. 
And couldn't possibly say anything besides, "Oh, my goodness," and even that came out with 
more breath than voice. 
Nestled in the box was a stunning band of white gold, adorned with a large marquis-cut emerald, 
flanked on either side by a single, perfect diamond. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry 
Daphne had ever seen, brilliant but elegant, obviously precious but not overly showy. 
"It's beautiful," she whispered. "I love it." 
"Are you certain?" Simon removed his gloves, then leaned forward and took the ring out of the 
box. "Because it is your ring. You shall be the one to wear it, and it should reflect your tastes, not 
mine." 
Daphne's voice shook slightly as she said, "Clearly, our tastes coincide." 
Simon breathed a small sigh of relief and picked up her hand. He hadn't realized how much it 
meant to him that she liked the ring until that very moment. He hated that he felt so nervous 
around her when they'd been such easy friends for the past few weeks. He hated that there were 
silences in their conversations, when before she'd been the only person with whom he never felt 
the need to pause and take stock of his words. 
Not that he was having any trouble speaking now. It was just that he didn't seem to know what 
to say. 
"May I put it on?" he asked softly. 
She nodded and started to remove her glove. 
But Simon stilled her fingers with his own, then took over the task. He gave the tip of each 
finger a tug, then slowly slid the glove from her hand. The motion was unabashedly erotic, 
clearly an abbreviated version of what he wanted to do: remove every stitch from her body. 
Daphne gasped as the edge of the glove trailed past the tips of her fingers. The sound of her 
breath rushing across her lips made him want her all the more. 
With tremulous hands, he slid the ring on her finger, easing it over her knuckle until it rested in 

---

place. 
"It fits perfectly," she said, moving her hand this way and that so that she could see how it 
reflected the light. 
Simon, however, didn't let go of her hand. As she moved, her skin slid along his, creating a 
warmth that was oddly soothing. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and dropped a gentle kiss 
on her knuckles. "I'm glad," he murmured. "It suits you." 
Her lips curved—a hint of that wide smile he'd come to adore. Maybe a hint that all would be 
well between them. 
"How did you know I like emeralds?" she asked. 
"I didn't," he admitted. "They reminded me of your eyes." 
"Of my—" Her head cocked slightly as her mouth twisted into what could only be described as a 
scolding grin. "Simon, my eyes are brown." 
"They're mostly brown," he corrected. 
She twisted until she was facing the gilt mirror he'd used earlier to inspect his bruises and 
blinked a few times. "No," she said slowly, as if she were speaking to a person of considerably 
small intellect, "they're brown." 
He reached out and brushed one gentle finger along the bottom edge of her eye, her delicate 
lashes tickling his skin like a butterfly kiss. "Not around the edge." 
She gave him a look that was mostly dubious, but a little bit hopeful, then let out a funny little 
breath and stood. "I'm going to look for myself." 
Simon watched with amusement as she stood and marched over to the mirror and put her face 
close to the glass. She blinked several times, then held her eyes open wide, then blinked some 
more. 
"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed. "I've never seen that!" 
Simon stood and moved to her side, leaning with her against the mahogany table that stood in 
front of the mirror. "You'll soon learn that I am always right." 
She shot him a sarcastic look. "But how did you notice that?" 
He shrugged. "I looked very closely." 
"You..." She seemed to decide against finishing her statement, and leaned back against the table, 
opening her eyes wide to inspect them again. "Fancy that," she murmured. "I have green eyes." 

---

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say—" 
"For today," she interrupted, "I refuse to believe they are anything but green." 
Simon grinned. "As you wish." 
She sighed. "I was always so jealous of Colin. Such beautiful eyes wasted on a man." 
"I'm sure the young ladies who fancy themselves in love with him would disagree." 
Daphne gave him a smirky glance. "Yes, but they don't signify, do they?" 
Simon caught himself wanting to laugh. "Not if you say so." 
"You'll soon learn," she said archly, "that I am always right." 
This time he did laugh. There was no way he could have held it in. He finally stopped, realizing 
that Daphne was silent. She was regarding him warmly, though, her lips curved into a nostalgic 
smile. 
"This was nice," she said, placing her hand on his. "Almost like it used to be, don't you think?" 
He nodded, turning his hand palm up so that he could clasp hers. 
"It will be like this again, won't it?" Her eyes showed a flicker of trepidation. "We'll go back to 
the way it was, won't we? Everything will be exactly the same." 
"Yes," he said, even though he knew it could not be true. They might find contentment, but it 
would never be just as it was. 
She smiled, closed her eyes, and rested her head against his shoulder. "Good." 
Simon watched their reflection for several minutes. And he almost believed he would be able to 
make her happy. 
* * * 
The next evening—Daphne's last night as Miss Bridgerton—Violet knocked on her bedroom 
door. 
Daphne was sitting on her bed, mementos of her childhood spread out before her, when she 
heard the rap. "Come in!" she called out. 
Violet poked her head in, an awkward smile pasted on her face. "Daphne," she said, sounding 
queasy, "do you have a moment?" 

---

Daphne looked at her mother with concern. "Of course." She stood as Violet edged into the 
room. Her mother's skin was a remarkable match with her yellow dress. 
"Are you quite all right, Mother?" Daphne inquired. "You look a little green." 
"I'm fine. I just—" Violet cleared her throat and steeled her shoulders. "It's time we had a talk." 
"Ohhhhhh," Daphne breathed, her heart racing with anticipation. She'd been waiting for this. All 
her friends had told her that the night before one's wedding, one's mother delivered all the secrets 
of marriage. At the last possible moment, one was admitted into the company of womanhood, 
and told all those wicked and delicious facts that were kept so scrupulously from the ears of 
unmarried girls. Some of the young ladies of her set had, of course, already married, and Daphne 
and her friends had tried to get them to reveal what no one else would, but the young matrons 
had just giggled and smiled, saying, "You'll find out soon." 
"Soon" had become "now," and Daphne couldn't wait. 
Violet, on the other hand, looked as if she might lose the contents of her stomach at any 
moment. 
Daphne patted a spot on her bed. "Would you like to sit here, Mother?" 
Violet blinked in a rather distracted manner. "Yes, yes, that would be fine." She sat down, half-
on and half-off the bed. She didn't look very comfortable. 
Daphne decided to take pity on her and begin the conversation. "Is this about marriage?" she 
asked gently. 
Violet's nod was barely perceptible. 
Daphne fought to keep the fascinated glee out of her voice. "The wedding night?" 
This time Violet managed to bob her chin up and down an entire inch. "I really don't know how 
to tell this to you. It's highly indelicate." 
Daphne tried to wait patiently. Eventually her mother would get to the point. 
"You see," Violet said haltingly, "there are things you need to know. Things that will occur 
tomorrow night. Things"—she coughed—"that involve your husband." 
Daphne leaned forward, her eyes widening. 
Violet scooted back, clearly uncomfortable with Daphne's obvious interest. "You see, your 
husband... that is to say, Simon, of course, since he will be your husband..." 

---

Since Violet showed no sign of finishing that thought, Daphne murmured, "Yes, Simon will be 
my husband." 
Violet groaned, her cornflower blue eyes glancing everywhere but Daphne's face. "This is very 
difficult for me." 
"Apparently so," Daphne muttered. 
Violet took a deep breath and sat up straight, her narrow shoulders thrown back as if she were 
steeling herself for the most unpleasant task. "On your wedding night," she began, "your husband 
will expect you to do your marital duty." 
This was nothing Daphne didn't already know. 
"Your marriage must be consummated." 
"Of course," Daphne murmured. 
"He will join you in your bed." 
Daphne nodded. She knew this as well. 
"And he will perform certain"—Violet groped for a word, her hands actually waving through the 
air—